


Nothing Good Ever Comes Easy

by White_Marker



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Domestic, Grief/Mourning, Hotel Dumort, M/M, Ooh the game of life!, as should be obvs probably okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-06 05:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14049486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Marker/pseuds/White_Marker
Summary: Shortly after Clary and Simon break up, Simon enters a relationship with his formerly estranged clan leader. Tension runs high when it becomes clear the two don’t know each other as well as they had thought. They say communication is key, but it is useless advice if you don’t really listen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, peace and love to my two betas, simonsfangs and maiarobers! First time working with betas, so it's exciting.

 

Cos I don't know how to link in the notes, here ya go: betas [simonsfangs](http://siimonsfangs.tumblr.com) and [maiarobers](http://maiarobers.tumblr.com)

 

 

Part I

_Ah, whatever goes around eventually comes back to you. So you gotta be careful, baby, and look both ways before you cross my mind._ — Bootsy Collins

 

_A Dive Bar_

 

The night had been a lonely and long one.

Unable to sleep, Raphael Santiago had tossed and turned in his bed, willing the digits on his alarm clock to change and announce sunset’s arrival. With hours of time to think and no one to share them with, he grew bored and sat up somewhere around three thirty in the afternoon. The sun would still be up for a while, an hour at least. On his nightstand lay an old copy of _Across the River and Into the Trees_ by Hemingway, but by page thirty five, the book depressed him and he tossed it aside. Sighing deeply, he got out of bed, drank a glass of water, and stopped in front of a shelf full of books, some copies more battered than the others. It had been a long time since he’d bought any new books. Old books smelled of their past, and sometimes he occupied himself by concentrating on the scent and attempting to decipher as much as he could about its previous owner. It was a game he played to keep his senses in working order. Even vampires get lazy if they stopped exercising.

Raphael stood in front of the shelf and settled on _La ciudad de las bestias_. The novel was hardly old, but he’d bought in second hand. As a rule, he never bought shiny new books, which were disappointing, as they smelled of nothing but artificial toner and glue.

After another hour of dissatisfactory and distracted reading passed – he reread passages he had no memory of absorbing. He put the book on the growing pile next to his bed, all discarded novels and novellas he couldn’t focus on.

He showered and put on some decent clothes, descended the stairs and shared ‘breakfast’ with Lily Chen and Stan Vakros, two other vampires residing in the hotel. When they finished, he cleaned the kitchen in a mechanical manner, scrubbing at the stove they rarely used, sweeping the floor with a broom, neatly cleaning the countertops and washing the cups they’d used. When there was nothing left to do, he watched the news and checked in with Magnus to hear if any complications or problems had arisen with the shadowhunters or fellow downworlders. Nothing. No news. All was quiet.

All was quiet in the hotel, too. It irked him. Was there nothing to do around here?

The antique clock in the downtrodden lobby declared eleven p.m. with slow even _gongs_. Time passed in a confusing mix of painstakingly slow or confusingly quick, as if he didn’t understand where the hours went and what he filled them with – how time pass when he barely did anything?

Raphael exited 116th East Harlem, the ruined and abandoned Hotel Dumort, and walked along the streets of the neighbourhood. The wind of the January winter was icy and harsh, even for a vampire. The temperature had dropped increasingly in the past few days, becoming glacial and even forcing beings such as himself to revert to overcoats and shawls. Humans covered their heads in hats and ear warmers, wore mittens and leather gloves, put on layer after layer to fight off the cold.

Raphael had, on this rare occasion, left aside his stylish jackets and had opted for something to keep him warm, instead of lukewarm. The wool itched at his throat. As to not garner unwanted attention from a passer-by observing the people on the street, he lit a cigarette and blew out the occasional breath to pretend he was human. It vaporized before him and turned into a white puff of smoke.

He turned the corner at a closed drugstore and followed the scent he’d caught a few minutes ago. When he’d first sniffed out Simon Lewis on his late-night promenade, he’d grown quickly bothered, remembering their last conversation. The interaction had become strangely uncomfortable when Lewis had blurted out that he couldn’t understand how Raphael could have _ever_ refused a kiss from _the_ Isabelle Lightwood, goddess walking, and that _surely_ he must have been asexual or just an _idiot_ – Simon spoke in italics. This statement baffled Raphael for many reasons. First of all, what did this brat know of his relationship with Isabelle? Secondly, how dare he presume to know anything? Raphael had ignored the question entirely, walking ahead in the Institute without directing another glance at Simon.

Why did this bother him so?

Young people – he did not consider himself to be part of this group, and had not for a long time – would be quick to label him asexual, but if he was being honest, the label held no appeal to him. Humans hungered for precision and establishing rules and stamping a tag on each and every thing, but the term _asexual_ rang untrue to his ears. Was he _without_ sex? Did he _never_ experience sexual attraction? Questions such as these had long ago ceased to occupy his thoughts. Yet, for some reason, Simon’s words got on his nerves. Everything about Simon vexed him, usually.

Raphael tightened his coat around him and trampled the cigarette butt underneath his leather dress shoes. He followed the scent he’d caught earlier and paused in front of a small dive bar. The windows were greasy and dusty, decorated by fairy lights and candles. A smell of beer and stale sweat wafted from the door. If he focused, he could hear Simon inside, probably attempting to chat up some girl. He sighed as he remembered the long-time promise he’d made to the red-headed shadowhunter, Miss Fairchild. He’d promised to look after this goon, and now seemed like one of those times the promise came into effect. No other familiar scent accompanied him, so he was alone, or at least without his friends.

From inside came strange music, with interweaving guitars and hypnotic vocals mixed with gritty stereo noise. When he opened the door, his eyes immediately zeroed in on the slumped figure sitting on a bar stool, sipping a large container of blood. Simon had not noticed the glacial air streaming in from the door, as he was well beyond inebriated, and seemed to be talking to his cup instead of a girl, as Raphael had first thought.

Raphael ordered a glass of B negative and sat down in the far left corner.

He kept an eye on the daylighter and rolled his eyes when he realized it was already past one a.m., which meant that he’d been in the bar for over an hour and Simon had done nothing but drink more alcohol-infused blood and talk intermittently with the bartender about _Black Panther_ , Simon’s latest object of obsession, if the long, detailed but uncoordinated analysis was anything to go by. Raphael wanted to roll his eyes. Superheroes were the absolute last thing on his list of interests.

The bar was called _The Lone Dove_ , a rusty Irish pub, and though it was not known as a typical downworlder bar, such as the Hunter’s Moon, there were enough downworlders mixed with humans to know that a brawl wouldn’t be solved with a snap of the fingers – or a trick of encanto. This worried Raphael as he saw two vampires of a neighbouring clan in Brooklyn approach Simon and start needling him, coaxing him to explain how his daylighter powers worked. The two men were loud and rowdy, built like trees and bulky in appearance. True, Raphael was in awe of these daylighter powers as well, but he had enough pride to not snivel and beg for the secret behind the daylight shining on Simon’s skin without burning. He had long since come to peace with his life in the dark, and in fact revelled in it. He disliked humans and did not want anything to do with them. God forbid, with shadowhunters.

The two shady vampires now poked at Simon, who batted at their hands as if they were irritating flies, not fang-wielding creatures with notably short tempers and a tendency towards greed, especially when they were young. Raphael had already passed the age.

He slurred, shouting at them to leave him alone. “I’m drunk and I’m tired!”

The men laughed and continued to bother him.

Simon groaned and put a hand to his head, attempting to speak calmly, “Seriously, it’s not my night, please go away.”

They didn’t listen, of course, and the bartender was too occupied with another patron to notice the quarrel. It seemed now was the moment to intervene.

“Gentlemen,” Raphael cut in. “It’s high time we wrap this up, don’t you think?”

“Raphael! Amigo!” Simon shouted into his ear.

Raphael grimaced and returned his attention to the two men, who, after realizing whom they were talking to, took on the appearance of properly chastised children and slunk away with an apologetic grin full of mismatching teeth.

Simon had already refocused his attention elsewhere. He cut a particularly drab figure, sitting there perched on his seat and staring sadly into his empty cup. “Well,” he murmured. “I guess, thanks?”

“You don’t have to guess, just say thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

When chatter mouth Simon didn’t add anything to the conversation, Raphael sat down on the empty bar stool next to him, and did his duty to ask what was wrong.

“Nothing.”

Simon looked terribly sad. Raphael forced himself not to sigh and asked instead, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“ _No_.”

Simon sounded like a child. What else could one expect from a nineteen year-old recently turned vampire? He was probably just hormonal. Raphael went back to his earlier table and picked up the empty cup, returning to the bar and asking for a refill. He cut off Simon, who’d clearly already had enough. He noticed Simon drumming his fingers along slowly with the tune coming from the music speakers, and they started a hesitant conversation about music preferences. Unsurprisingly, every band Simon mentioned was completely unknown to Raphael, and vice versa. Perhaps it was a generational thing.

To his astonishment, time went by fairly quickly and the last round bell rang before their conversation dried up. Simon was clingy when he was drunk and needed someone to hold onto when he stood up. Raphael begrudgingly accepted this task, even though he did not enjoy having Simon pet his arm.

What happened next, he would not be able to rationalize, not even years into the future. Sometimes things just happen, and you have no true control over them – even this explanation felt like an unknown and halfhearted lie. Either way, in those minutes after they left the bar, it seemed easy for Raphael to let Simon do what he wanted. That in itself was strange. Raphael did not _let_ other people make choices for him. Afterwards, he would wonder what he was to Simon —distraction, end game, buyer’s choice? He’d promised he would look after the clan’s fledgling, but that didn’t make him a guide or a mentor.

So how did they end up pressed against one another in a dirty alleyway somewhere in the middle of the city at night?

How had Simon decided in the span of a few seconds that Raphael’s lips looked soft to the touch, and that he’d wanted to test this budding theory?

Raphael felt shocked at first. He didn’t kiss people often, and if he did, it was mostly because of a mirror effect: he was only interested in the act, because he enjoyed feeling the effect it had on other people. The initiation had been all Simon. And Raphael … well, he got high on the feeling of someone else’s feelings of happiness and exhilaration, though he rarely experienced the necessity to initiate this type of physical intimacy.

Raphael scarcely knew what to think with these eager lips pushed insistently against his. Isabelle had been slow in her proceedings, leaving him enough space to protest. Thinking of her in a romantic manner was alien and felt distinctly unwanted. Simon blindsided him and just as he felt Simon stiffen, embarrassment coursing through his inexperienced veins at the thought of rejection, Raphael’s lips acted on their own volition and he reacted aggressively to Simon’s lively desperation.

“I like this,” Simon murmured after a while.

Raphael could not reply in kind. He did not _like_ it, he … He felt conflicted, and could only understand one brazen, primal thing: he wanted more.

Just as Raphael gathered the courage, for once in his life, to enter blind territory with someone who would probably be the wrong choice, Simon declined his offer to accompany him to Dumort.

“It’s not my home, anyways,” Simon said before righting himself, huffing out a breath and turning around with a silly little wave as he walked out of the alley.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

betas [simonsfangs](http://siimonsfangs.tumblr.com/) and [maiarobers](http://maiarobers.tumblr.com/)

Part II

 

_Lewis Residence_

 

The next morning, seated at the kitchen island of his childhood home, Simon groaned in pain and cursed his existence. Had he really embarrassed himself so thoroughly yesterday?

The bright sun shone through the thin curtains, illuminating the entire kitchen. A row of cacti decorated the windowsill. It was probably an icy cold morning outside, without a cloud in sight. The heater had been put on at full blast, but Simon was rather impervious to the temperature changes around him.

“There you go, little brother,” said Rebecca, his sister, while patting him amiably on the shoulder. “Let it all out. You’re really embracing the loose and wild college student this year, aren’t you?”

“Uh-uh,” he replied.

“Plus, you’re not setting a good example for mom. She’s not doing too well these days.”

“Shit.” He drank a bit of coffee and looked at the pile of eggs on his plate miserably, wondering if it was a shame or not he could not longer eat. Would he even want to eat, had he been able to? His stomach roiled and he decided that, no, he would not.

“How’s she holding up?” Simon asked. Guilt filled his belly. The first time she’d relapsed had been when he’d gone off the radar after he’d just been Turned, capital T. Not only did it make him feel the familiar and acute sense of guilt, but along with it came a shameful sense of anger. He was angry at his mother. Sometimes, he caught himself thinking things so terrible it made him cringe, like _why can’t you just not drink? why do you make it so difficult for yourself?_ He never said any of it aloud, though.

“All right, I guess. Most of the time. Last night she wouldn’t go to bed. She reorganized the whole pantry, the entire library, and rearranged the spice cabinet about eight times.” His mother got restless, and instead of reaching for the bottle she redirected her attention elsewhere, like cleaning or tidying. Rebecca pulled an annoyed face. “I had to put her to bed, almost. I know we’re supposed to be patient and all, but sometimes it’s difficult.”

“I know.” Simon looked down at his food again. “Ugh. Is she going to her AA meetings?”

“Yea, I think so.”

Simon nodded and let out a long sigh. This hangover was killing him.

“Yeah, yeah, just eat your eggs and bacon,” she said, dumping another portion of scrambled eggs on his plate. They looked slimy and it almost made him hurl.

“I’m not hungry.”

“It’ll be good for your hangover.”

“I’m really not hungry!” he wailed.

“Jesus, Si! I made this especially for you. Why did I even bother?”

“Sorry. Thanks. But no thanks.”

He spent the rest of the morning and afternoon in bed with his shutters closed. Somewhere along the way, he’d got used to the dark. It almost seemed like a crime to admit it.

 

 

_One week later, Urban Art Exposition, Downtown Manhattan_

 

Simon and Clary walked into an exposition room, a large well-lit space showcasing students’ artwork, amongst which Clary’s resided.

This year’s theme was _ARTificial Intelligence – Our Era of Technology_ , and each college student had been pushed to put their most innovative work forward.

Clary stopped in front of her own work, a skyline of the city, each line on the painting reworked through coding. It wasn’t one of her best works, and she barely discussed it, dismissing the painting entirely.

“If you squint,” Clary said, “you can see the Empire State Building here.” She pointed to the right side of the tableau and almost touched the cloth. “Don’t you ever just get the urge to destroy a painting?” she asked. She scraped her nails across her work, attracting the attention of an old lady next to them who stared at her in shock. “Maybe it’s that death drive Freud keeps mentioning,” she said.

“Uhhm,” Simon said, tugging at his glasses, “No?” He quickly pulled away her hand when the lady uttered a sound _tut_.

Clary seemed to wake up from her little funk and smiled at Simon broadly. The smile didn’t touch her eyes, but they rarely did these days.

While she wandered off without waiting for him, he contemplated her odd behaviour. When they’d been together for those few weeks right after her mother passed away, he barely had been able to shake off his ecstasy to see what was going on in front of him. The simple joy of kissing his best friend in the whole world drove him to a state of blindness, and he’d rarely stopped to realize that her smile didn’t reach her eyes, that her laughs were frequently followed by a hollow look. Now he understood a lovedrunk Simon was a slightly selfish Simon.

Clary was a ghost. She walked around with plastic facial expressions she had learned to paste on her face when they were expected from her. They were simulations, that was all. She walked around in a shell of her former self, and had too much on her mind to expose herself to the grief that ate her up.

Simon wondered how much of the time Clary’s thoughts were about her mother.

He could remember a few nights during which he woke up and noticed she was awake, always awake before he was.

Had she loved him as something more? Or had she just needed her best friend?

Either way, Simon thought as he followed Clary across the room crowded with art students and their families and friends, they were over and he felt they were, in all likelihood, better off as friends. She needed love and support right now, not a complicated friends-turned-lovers situation. She hadn’t mentioned her mother once in the past month, and Jocelyn had only died four months ago.

Clary accepted a glass of orange juice from a waiter passing by. Her eyes were prettily made up, mascara heavy on her lashes.

“This is from one of the girls in my class.”

Simon was glad she’d taken up her lessons again, now that everything was calm on the Shadowhunter front. He took in the sculpture Clary had pointed at. It was a mask made entirely from metal chips found in mobile phones.

“Creepy,” he said as he approached the mask and peered at it from every angle.

“Mh.” Clary snorted and took a drink.

She cheerfully grabbed his arm and they walked around the room and discussed a few pieces. Simon found most works very dark, despite the recurrent use of neon colours and graffiti. The subject of Jace came up and Clary’s face immediately clouded with guilt. It hurt less than it should have, the mention of her boyfriend – possibly because in some way, it had been obvious from the start to Simon that she’d choose Jace over him.

“He’s not here tonight?” Simon asked. Truthfully he was relieved, Jace was a whole new level of smug that he could not deal with tonight.

“No. He said the Institute needed him more than the art world does.”

Simon grunted in disagreement. “Pft. Idiot.” What a killjoy.

After the show, they went to a downworlder’s café where he ordered a glass of blood and Clary drank a cheap pint of beer. They continued chatting about nothing important. Sometime along the evening turning into night, Simon felt awash with a fierce desperation to provide his best friend with comfort, but each time he attempted to steer the conversation to her well-being or to her mother, Clary shut him down. Instead, she took a large gulp of her beer and redirected the conversation to other mindless topics, like her stiff-upper-lip art history professor, or the latest Marvel merchandise she had her eye on. Always armed with paper and a pencil, she took out a small case of markers and doodled on the square beer mats, decorating the brands with swirls and symbols.

For now, Simon could sense his words of comfort weren’t wanted, only his presence. And if he was going to be a welcome distraction, he was going to be the best goddamned distraction a best friend could ever ask for.

He smiled at Clary, grabbed a felt pen, and screwed around with different doodles to come up with a new logo for his one-man-band.

 

They parted ways a little after midnight, each heading for a different metro line. He embraced her fiercely and kissed her cheek before wishing her goodnight. Simon hesitated before getting on the metro that would take him home. Dismissing most of his usual anxieties, he headed to Harlem instead.

In front of Dumort, the night was quiet.

He stood frozen on the pavement for a good five minutes, until Lily barged through the door and let out an aggrieved groan.

“I’ve been listening to your fidgeting for years. In or out, baby. We don’t want any gawkers or loiterers around here.”

“Ehm.”

She made an impatient motion with her hands. “Well?”

He wasn’t entirely sure what he could expect from his fellow vampires at the moment. Did they still want his head on a spike for freeing Camille? She was gone and dealt with now, though it didn’t erase his past mistake. But he was one of them, at the end of the day. Did they like him? Highly unlikely, if Lily’s expression was anything to go by.

“I’m not gonna stand here all fuckin night. In or out?”

“In! In! In. I’m going in. Thanks. Cool.”

Lily stepped aside and let him in, her eyes following him closely. Her frown was set so deep, he suspected her brows might merge into one angered unibrow.

There was a draft in the entrance hall of the hotel. Simon took one look around and spotted several clan members taking in his appearance with a leer or smirk, and he decided he would waste no time hanging around with a bunch of vampires who hated his guts. He tripped on the stairwell and heard a few laughs behind him. Righting himself, he turned around and gave them a broad smile, the only thing he knew how to do when embarrassing himself.

Upstairs, the halls were empty and silent. On the second floor, he took a left and walked towards the second door, knocking twice.

After a brief pause, during which Simon chewed his lips raw and took off his horned glasses, the door opened. In the doorway stood Raphael. He looked tired and pale.

“Hi— eh, hi!”

“Hello.”

The ensuing stillness, of both sounds and movement, hung heavy in the air. Simon had no idea what to say. Had it been a good idea to come here? Only a week ago, he’d said this wasn’t his home, and now he stood in front of the threshold of a room he hadn’t entered in a long while. In fact, he wondered, _had_ he ever been inside Raphael’s room? Tonight he’d sought him out through scent, but when he’d stayed over at the Dumort before his disastrous stint of betrayal, he’d rarely ever gone upstairs. One peek over Raphael’s shoulders told him that this was in fact the first time he had knocked on this door.

“Mh? Are you going to stand there all evening?” Raphael demanded. “Why are you here?”

“Uh – eh – well, I – uh­—,”

“Mh?”

“I just came by. To say hi. So, hi.”

Raphael’s face softened, he nodded and slowly stepped aside, the frown on his face wavering. It returned in full force when he put his hand on Simon’s chest.

“Take your shoes off.”

Simon looked down at Raphael’s socked feet. Plain black. He himself wore bright blue socks with pokéballs on them. “Right. Sorry.”

Once his sneakers were off, he walked inside and took in the room. The furniture was sleek, made of mostly dark wood. In the middle of the room stood a marble writing table with two old, leather chairs. A golden letter opener lay next to a pile of unopened mail. Next to the bed with simple covers was a door to a bathroom, presumably. Two nightstands stood next to the bed, each loaded with a pile of books. The room looked well-lived in, with cupboards and closets full of books on classical piano and photography, the shelves cluttered with knick-knacks and memorabilia, from a collection of jade figurines to jars filled with metal scraps. Simon touched and inspected the whole closet while Raphael kept to the shadows. The room was filled with the soft glow from the standing lamp next to two large leather sofas.

“This is nice,” Simon said, holding out a jade doll carrying two buckets with a yoke. “You’ve been collecting for a long time?”

“Decades.”

Simon laughed and moved the little figurine up and down. “Right. It’s weird, because you look so young.”

“Mh.”

“How old were you when you, you know, croaked?”

“Seventeen.”

Simon almost dropped the figurine. “Seventeen! You’re younger than I am!”

“Not really.” Raphael pushed himself off of the wall and took a seat in one of the couches, his eyes never leaving Simon.

“Still. Wow. That’s … eh … I didn’t know that. I guess you do _kinda_ look young.”

“Mh.”

He continued his inspection of the closet.

“You were with the shadowhunter tonight.” Whether it was a statement or a question was unclear.

“Oh, yeah,” Simon said, fumbling with another figurine while nodding. “She took me to an art show of hers. Why?”

“No reason.”

Simon put back the dolls in their proper place, carefully reconstructing the jade site. He walked over to Raphael and sat down next to him. Feeling particularly bold, he leaned forward and lightly bit the skin of Raphael’s neck. Clary had never liked it when he did that, but this wasn’t Clary, and he needed to stop comparing the two of them. They were as different as night and day, light and dark, a shadowhunter and a shadow.

After a while, Simon sighed and said, “This is nice.”

“You certainly seem to think so.”

Simon abruptly stopped and distanced himself, thinking he’d made an error in judgement. “What does that mean?”

Raphael put one hand on his cheek as he inspected the face in front of him. “Whatever little amount of blood left in your system has rushed to a few particular places.”

Simon gulped. “Oh?”

“Oh.”

“Where?”

“Here.” Raphael’s fingers on his mouth. “Here.” Swiping across his cheekbones. “Here.”

Right beneath his clavicles. “Here.” Trailing down towards his groin.

“ _Uh._ ”

“Mh,” said Raphael. He traced Simon’s eyebrows with an insistent press of his fingers.

“That feels nice.”

“Good.”

“What do I – what do you want _me_ to do? What do _you_ want?”

Raphael looked down, suddenly closed off and hesitant. He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

A sigh. “I’m not entirely sure. Normally I do not want this. I’m not sure what to expect, so I couldn’t possibly tell you what you should expect.”

“Oh.”

“Do you remember when you were acting like a little brat—,”

“ _Hey!_ ”

“—and told me I was an idiot for not kissing Isabelle?”

“I guess? Vaguely. Not really.”

Raphael quirked his brows in impatience. “I told you it was none of your business. But, I suppose I might share it with you now. I felt no need to kiss her.”

“That’s fine.”

“I know it’s fine, I’m not saying otherwise.”

“Sorry. Continue.”

“There’s not much I wish to say on the matter, actually, Simon.”

For some reason, Raphael saying his name felt almost like a caress, a strange gentleness Simon couldn’t easily associate with someone like Raphael.

“Oh. Well, they’re your lips, you should kiss with them who you want! But uh … I don’t understand. Why did you let me kiss you then, last time? A lot of times last time.” He pinched his lips. “And I’m not fishing for compliments, here, I just really want to know. I’m afraid I’ll do something wrong.”

“I enjoyed it.”

“Oh. Good?” Simon attempted to unriddle the blank look on Raphael’s face. “I mean, good! Right?”

“I suppose it is good.”

Simon blew a raspberry. “You’re a difficult read, man.”

“I know.” Raphael was not going to apologize for it, Simon was sure of it.

“But I … You need to tell me when I do something you don’t like, though. You know? Because I don’t know. When I’m doing something you don’t want – or like – or –”

“Always.”

“Good. Yeah. Deal.” Simon held his hand out and Raphael shook it with a small smile. He seemed to be thinking, _what an idiota_ , but as long as it put a smile on Raphael’s face, it didn’t matter. They spent the rest of the evening trading hungry kisses and hesitantly – on Simon’s part, that is – tasting small drops of each other’s blood. Oddly enough, Raphael had no qualms about it, nor did he show any hesitancy. He whispered, “I want to taste you. The little life coursing through you.” It was another thing Simon couldn’t do with a human without it disturbing his conscience too much. When Simon heard Raphael groan quietly, he felt sure he was right where he belonged.

They spent weeks locked up in that room, hanging onto the exploratory honeymoon phase, deciphering each other’s body, what they enjoyed and disliked, lying in bed lazily until even the late sunlight hours. The rest of the clan left them in peace after Raphael had growled at Stan disrupting them four times in one morning. Simon wondered what on earth the clan must’ve thought about him. How they must hate him, he thought. How they must have so little respect for him. First betraying the clan and releasing Camille, then ignoring them as he was above them? And now claiming all their clan leader’s time for himself? If ever there was a selfish being, surely he must be it …

“They can’t stand me, probably?” he mumbled one night, naked and vulnerable.

Raphael, never one to deny his slightly vindictive nature, did not disagree with him. Neither did he ever explain how he’d forgiven Simon, even if the others hadn’t. Simon was rather afraid to ask, he could admit that to himself. He was convinced the answer wouldn’t please him.

They found out quickly that they had little in common, beside the glaringly obvious creature of the night status – which was in itself enough to connect them. Raphael’s deep interest in religion spurred Simon on to investigate his own, and Raphael taught him how to pronounce god’s name in Hebrew without a tremble in his voice. Simon didn’t wear a David star pendant but traced Raphael’s cross without burning his fingers, and he marvelled at how belief could burn someone.

Sometimes Raphael would grow quiet and pretend to sleep, but Simon wasn’t so easily fooled. When he tried to unravel what was on Raphael’s mind, he did not succeed. He let it go, figuring Raphael already shared more with Simon than he did with most people, and that would have to be enough. Sometimes parts of Raphael’s old self would reappear, he would become distant and bark orders and commands, he would bite out his answers and disregard everything Simon said.

Not knowing what else to do, Simon simply reverted to his sunny demeanour, offering a broad smile and a dumb joke in the hopes of soothing whatever temper had gotten hold of Raphael.


	3. Chapter 3

betas [simonsfangs](http://siimonsfangs.tumblr.com/) and [maiarobers](http://maiarobers.tumblr.com/)

Part III

 

 _Do you ever wonder? What he might be going through on his own, and the demons that he’s facing alone? Everybody’s hurting, everybody’s going through it._ — Kali Uchis

 

_Lewis Residence_

 

At seven thirty six one evening, early February, Raphael stood contemplating his current life as he smoked a cigarette in front of the Lewis residence.

There was no trashcans in sight, and Raphael scowled when he had to drop the cigarette butt on the ground, crushing it with his shoe. How was one supposed to avoid littering if there were no trashcans around? He hoped Elaine wouldn’t mind the cigarette ashes in her buxus plants.

In summer he would hear crickets. Now he heard the snow crack under his shoes as he walked to the front door, rang once and waited.

Simon wrenched open the door with a nervous look on his face.

“Raphael! Oh, you smell good– wait, why are you here?”

“It’s called cologne, Simon. A concept you’re unfamiliar with, perhaps.” Raphael took a deep sniff and indeed, came to the conclusion that Simon smelled of teenage boy – a raw mix of unwashed underwear and sweat. He pulled a face. “Definitely unfamiliar with.”

“ _Well_! That’s rude.”

Raphael dipped his head to acquiesce.

“What are you doing here, anyways? Since when do you come to my home unless there’s some emergency, or something else devastatingly hazardous going on?”

“Relax, baby. I’m just here to see your mother. She’s expecting me.”

“Expecting you? What? Huh? Since when do you– jeez, are we at the meet-the-parents stage already? Oh, my god. I’m never going to meet your parents, they’re dead – oh, I’m sorry, that’s so fucking rude of me!”

“Simon.”

“What? Hu–?”

“Shut up.”

Simon shuffled on his feet and brushed the hair out of his face. He still looked constipated and ill at ease, as if he were sitting an exam.

“I am, after all, your band manager, remember? And I’d promised her I’d pass by sometime.”

“Right. I remember. You were threatening me at the time. Good ol’ days.”

“Are you going to let me in, or will you continue bumbling like a nervous child?”

“Absolutely! Yes! Okay.” Simon opened the door fully and motioned him inside with a flourish. “Welcome!”

Rebecca stood in the doorway to the living room and regarded Raphael with raised brows and crossed arms. “Hum,” was all she said. “Who are you?”

At the same time, they said, “He’s my boyfriend,” and, “I’m his band manager.”

“Okay,” she said, blinking twice and nodding her head slowly up and down. “You Jewish?”

“Rebecca!”

“No,” said Raphael, “I’m not.”

She cackled and said, “Mom’s gonna dig it. I bet.”

“She’s not going to care, you zealot!”

When Rebecca returned to her discovery channel TV show, Simon turned to Raphael and whispered, “She’s just messing with you. My mom doesn’t care about any of that.”

Elaine came down the stairs with an enthusiastic grin on her face. It was exactly the same as Simon’s. “Mr. Santiago! How lovely you could come.” Raphael took the bouquet of flowers he’d held behind his back and presented the lilies to her. “Oh! Thank you. So very gallant.” Simon rolled his eyes.

“Welcome! Come in!” She ushered him towards the kitchen and offered him an array of sweets and drinks. “Tea?” An enormous heap of tea boxes was piled into a cabinet above the sink. She sighed, slightly, and said, “We have mint, green tea, jasmine, hibiscus, raspberry, strawberry, chamomile – Simon’s favourite –, black tea, sensha, apple-cinnamon, chai, eh – well, we have everything, really! Or would you prefer some wine? We have some in the pantry, if you wish.”

Raphael was slightly overwhelmed. She appeared to be a little bit restless.

“We’re a tea family,” Simon explained in the silence. “Hence the vast selection.”

Raphael offered a polite smile. “Just some mint tea would be great, thank you.”

“Perfect!” Elaine exclaimed with a small nod, smacking her hands together quietly and preparing the tea.

They chatted for a while, sitting around the kitchen table. The teacups reminded Raphael of the ones his sister Rosa used whenever he visited her. The radio played in the background, an old music program about the best soundtracks in African film production. Raphael noticed from time to time that Simon glanced at his mother with a strange look in his eye. He couldn’t decipher what the looks were for, though.

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat anything?” Elaine asked for the third time.

“I’m sure, thank you.”

“Really? I got plenty of leftovers!” She stopped quite suddenly and emphasized. “A lot. I went a little overboard, yesterday.”

“I’m sure, thank you. It’s kind of you.”

The evening passed quickly, and ended with Simon lingering at the front door, Raphael standing outside. Simon was strangely quiet.

“What’s wrong?” Raphael asked.

“Oh, nothing. Sorry about my mother. She gets a little–,” he flapped his hands, “from time to time.”

“That’s fine.”

“Nah, she has endless energy sometimes, it can be overwhelming. She needs to channel it somewhere, I guess. Preferably so she doesn’t go off the rails. Into the bottle, you know.”

Raphael nodded. Unlike Simon, his response was an increased sense of sympathy for Elaine. Simon seemed a bit at a loss for what to do.

“It’s better when she’s a restless state than when she’s drinking, obviously. I mean – yeah.”

Raphael nodded absentmindedly.

“Sorry I’m complaining about this. Sorry for my alcoholic mother.” The sarcasm had just a tad too much frustration. “I thought I couldn’t deal with anymore problems, you know. Dying and then becoming an undead vamp. That’s enough. I don’t wanna deal with — But, what are you gonna do, huh?” Simon’s face tightened, he shrugged and scuffed his sneakers on the ground.

Simon’s nonchalant words stung. Even though his tone sounded disimpassioned, the words had a sharp edge to it, as if he was angered. Perhaps he was too young to understand his mother. Perhaps he didn’t have enough patience, yet. Raphael couldn’t condemn him for that. In that moment he felt his age, an old man in the frozen body of a kid. Simon was still a kid in the body of a kid. It was exhausting to always be the more mature one of the two. _Just throw in the towel_ , he said to himself, _leave_.

Raphael said, “I’m going to go.”

Simon pouted. “Oh. Okay.”

“Bye, Simon.”

Simon’s frown deepened at the dismissal. For a reason Raphael couldn’t name, it angered him. He did not feel like doling out reassuring words or offering a conciliatory embrace. Without thinking too deeply about it, he turned his back to Simon and made his way to the closest metro station.

 

 

_Raphael’s Bedroom_

 

Raphael recognized the pattern he was stuck in. He knew it only too well.

A long time ago, even before he’d been bitten and had changed his life to one of a downworlder, he had known his biggest obstacle to overcome would not be the people around him and what they did to him, be it bullying or belittling, but himself. After he had recovered from his first mental breakdown, the result of years of low-grade depression and avoidance of the problems that plagued him, he realized that one positive thing remained: if his own mind was capable of damaging himself to the point where he had no strength to get up out of bed for weeks, then nothing else could ever hurt him.

And, to some extent, he was right. When he was faced with a vampire for the first time, the gutting fear taking over, when he stood in front of that fanged creature, still the following thought rang through his mind: _nothing can hurt me as much as I hurt myself_ , and that gave him a little courage. Even when he died, the courage didn’t desert him. When he faced Camille years later, he felt that same courage return. _She can’t hurt me as much as I hurt myself_.

It gave him strength to know that he was his own worst enemy. It was safe to know the worst pain was the pain he inflicted on himself, and was unbound to anyone else.

When he stood in front of his enemies with a straight back and his chin held high, with unwavering eyes and brute force radiating from his immortal body, he survived.

But when he stood in front of the mirror faced with the image of himself, forever unchanging and plagued by the same worries, his courage flickered. Without too much resistance, he could sink into the worst version of himself, toxic and poisonous to his psyche, and it could tear him apart to the point where he no longer understood what was the point of living, as ironically as the word applied to him.

Tonight his reflection was pale with dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t been eating or sleeping properly for a few weeks and it was weighing on him, the lack of self-care draining him of energy. Lily stopped in the doorway briefly, dawdling but silent, though it was clear she was looking for words of support. In the end, she placed the glass of blood on the small table next to one of the leather couches and left without exchanging conversation.

A wordless agreement had settled over them during the last decade or so, after she had first realized he struggled with recurrent bouts of depression: she made sure he ate, but other than that, there was little she could do, or at least, little he could or would accept.

The _clunk_ of the glass being put on the table woke Raphael from his daze in front of the mirror. He scrutinized the blood, but couldn’t bring himself to drink. His stomach felt bloated and he had no appetite, not even for blood.

The decision to go over to Elaine’s earlier that evening had been the result of a downwards spiral into another depressive episode. While falling, he would sometimes experience small moments of reprieve during which he grew overconfident and would eagerly take charge of his life. They were small bursts of energy that depleted before he could enjoy them. They melted away in front of his eyes, and once the confidence and energy was gone, all that was left was a dull confusion and an acute sense of hopelessness.

He shouldn’t have gone over to Elaine’s. As the evening proceeded, his good mood disappeared like the call of birds at nightfall. The cherry on top was Simon’s opinion of his mother’s issues. It didn’t bode well for someone like Raphael. Now he was in a worse mood than before.

He undressed, laying aside his stiff dress pants and shirt, and climbed into bed, pulling the covers close and shutting his eyes.

He felt himself spiralling. One of the hardest things to do for people with a past of depression, was avoid falling into the same pattern.

Because it was effortless, too easy, like saying hello to a familiar face.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Cos I don't know how to link in the notes, here ya go: betas [simonsfangs](http://siimonsfangs.tumblr.com/) and [maiarobers](http://maiarobers.tumblr.com/)

Part IV

 

_Hudson River Park_

 

Hudson River Park was covered by a thin layer of melting snow. The sun shone brightly in the sky and glittered on the water. Old ladies sat on small, wooden benches, dressed from head to toe in woollen coats and sturdy winter shoes to protect themselves from the cold. A group of brave young men braved the weather and were playing basketball despite the freezing temperature, their shouts echoing across the court reaching Clary and Simon, who sat at the edge of the park, overlooking the Hudson.

It was a beautiful, crisp morning.

Clary sniffed every few seconds, her nose leaking from the biting cold.

“You sure you don’t want to go inside somewhere? Warm up with a nice cup of coffee?” Simon bumped his shoulder against hers.

She shook her head and smiled brilliantly, if a little sadly, her eyes tearing up against the harsh light of the sun.

Simon attempted to get the conversation going several times, bringing his bright smile along with it, but was met with one-word answers and shakes of the head.

“You’ll catch a cold if we stay like this for long. You’re not even wearing a hat!”

She didn’t reply.

Simon thought back to when Jocelyn was still alive. She used to take her daughter to the batting cages in the Hudson Park, encouraging her and playing with her. They came out here in the summertime to sunbathe and to swim. Simon had come along a few times. He remembers how Jocelyn used to watch Clary.

“Hey, Clary, listen—,”

“How’s Raphael?”

“Oh. He’s, uh, he’s fine.”

Clary gave him a watery smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Absolutely fine.”

She punched his shoulder and looked straight ahead, inhaling. “He’s good to you?”

It felt strange, talking about their relationships with other people so soon after they’d ended.

“Hum, yeah, sure.”

“You don’t sound very convinced,” she said, with a faraway look, as if she barely realized she had asked a question. The words came out slow and calculated.

“No, he is. He’s just … Raphael. A mystery, _whoo_. He’s quite sweet, in his own way, actually. Not sweet like your regular type of sweet, but a strange _mean_ kind of sweet. I don’t really know how to explain, but if you get to know him a little better, you’ll know exactly what I mean!” Simon laughed.

When he looked sideways, he figured out Clary was not paying attention to him. Instead, she lazily adjusted one lock of her curly red hair, breathed slowly through parted lips and moved them choppily as if she was about to say something. Simon ceased talking and looked at his best friend. Her lips stopped moving and her features froze in the biting temperatures. She stared steadily at the water, the glittering surface reflecting in her eyes. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks one by one. She didn’t speak, her breath didn’t hitch.

Simon grabbed one of her limp hands and squeezed as hard as he could through his gloves. He couldn’t detect any type of response. She made no noise, moved no muscle.

Unable to contain his own grief, Simon hugged her fiercely, but she made no move to embrace him in return. Instead, she sat there, completely numb. Her face was cold and pale, as if she had been dunked in the glacial waters of the Hudson.

Nothing he could say or do relieved her pain, and perhaps that was worst of all. When his own father had died, Simon had still been young, so young that he had adjusted quickly, and he had a mother to rely on. Clary and her mother were a team, they were a pair, and now she had lost such a vital part of herself. Simon could not offer anything. She must’ve felt so alone, and the thought was killing him.

Minutes ticked by.

Clary began shaking, her breath coming in short bursts.

“Are you cold?” he asked, rubbing her arms and shoulders.

She didn’t reply.

He continued rubbing her arms in the hopes of getting her blood circulating. Her heartbeat was erratic, slowing down one minute, somersaulting the next. Slow, deep sobs came from deep within her, unverbalized and raw. Though he saw her pain materialize in front of him, he could not imagine how terribly abandoned and lost she must have felt. When he drew back and took her face in his hands, her face was coated in a layer of glistening tears and a trail of clear snot running down her nose. Clary’s eyes were glazed over, she stared right through him, at a focal point beyond his shoulders, and nothing he said could refocus her attention.

They sat there, in the freezing cold, until Simon cursed himself for being so careless and he took her home with him to his old bedroom, took off her tight jeans and overgrown sweater, put her in his bed with a warm water bottle, and tucked the covers around her neatly. She didn’t fall asleep for a while, but he held her hand until her breathing finally evened out.

 

_Lewis Residence, Simon’s Bedroom_

 

The next few days passed in a similar fashion. Clary was a ghost of her former self. She did not eat, and spent all of her time lying in Simon’s bed, either watching old reruns with him or resting in a fitful sleep. Elaine came by a few times with some tea, taking Simon aside and telling him that Clary needed time, above all. Elaine had that caring motherly streak you couldn’t simply imitate.

One morning, a week or so after they had gone to Hudson River Park, Clary licked her cracked lips and said, “I broke up with Jace.”

“What?” Simon asked, startled and surprised. “When?”

“A while ago.”

“How come? I thought you guys were…” he made some strange approximation of ‘together’ with his hands. “Like this!” He smiled.

Clary huffed with a miserable lilt to her smile, as if ever her physical features wouldn’t allow her clemency. She hummed. “I just couldn’t focus on him. I wanted– or needed space. I’m not sure he understood.”

“Of course he does! _Clary_! Of course he does.” Simon was almost loathe to give Jace credit, seeing as he hated the guy, but all that discord between them fell away in light of Clary.

She shrugged her shoulders and collected the covers in a heap around her legs, patting down the hollow parts. It seemed to calm her down. “Maybe. But I …”

“Hey, whatever, it’s fine. If you need that, then you do you.”

“I guess.”

Clary stared down at her hands and nodded a few times.

A buzz came from her phone. She swiped at the screen and after a moment, said, “Izzy wants to hang out.”

Simon nodded. “Yeah. Sure. When? But are you up for that, now? I mean, we can postpone, wait a while.”

“I should probably get out of the house at some point.”

“Won’t Jace be there?”

“I guess.”

“Will you mind?”

Putting her phone down, she said, “No, I don’t think so. I mean I–,” she sighed heavily, sounding aggravated, and shook her head, “I wanted space, but I – I’m sure I still want him. _Will_ still want him. You know?”

He didn’t. “Sure.”

Clary tapped against her phone.

“Did Izzy say what she wanted to do? And are you really a hundred percent sure you wanna go? We can totally ditch. I’ll come up with a good excuse. Like we’re spending some bro time, or we’re dorking over comics. Or _Black Panther_!”

“No, no, it’s fine.” She responded to his bright smile: a small appeared on her face. “I want to go. We can – we can go bowling or something.”

“ _Bowling?_ Shadowhunters do _bowling_? I don’t see their asses _bowling_.”

“I don’t want to go to a bar. I’ll just drink.”

“Right. Roger that. No bars.”

“And you like bowling.”

“ _God_ , I do. It’s been frickin’ forever since we’ve gone. Ever since the whole –,” Simon gestured wildly with his arms. “Vampire slash shadowhunter thing.”

Clary nods sombrely. “Not tonight, though. I don’t feel good. I’ll text her for tomorrow. You want to invite Raphael?” She took her phone and started tapping away.

“Ehhh. I can try.”

Simon did try and, predictably, this was how it went down:

[Simon] _Raphael! Join me for a night of bowling, pls. It’ll be crawling with Shadowhunters, I your need emotional support._

[Raphael] _No_

[Simon] _Oi! Why not_

[Raphael] _I would suffer an evening of Shadowhunters for what?_

[Simon] _Me? :)_

[Raphael] _No_

[Simon] _:(_

 

 

 _The_ _Bowling Alley at Pins and Balls_

 

Simon took in the bowling alley with a hint of wonder.

Music thumped from the speakers in the corners of the joint, a heavy bass resonating in Simon’s sensitive ears. Coloured lights decorated the ceilings across the tables near the bar and the shoe-renting station. The alleys were set aglow with an ultraviolet light, the pins and bowling shoes of the patrons becoming fluorescent purple. Simon was wearing a white shirt underneath his hoodie and he already felt giddy at the prospect of holding it up under the light.

Standing in front of the alleys, armed with his old fashioned bowling kicks with velcro, Simon exclaimed, “Cool!”, receiving little acknowledgement of the group behind him. Izzy smirked at his schoolboy enthusiasm, whereas Alec’s face was passive as ever, even with Magnus standing next to him. Jace concentrated his attention to Clary, who looked at Simon absently.

Simon bumped his pair of shoes against Clary’s. “Hey. You ready to get kicked off the Bowling Throne?”

“Bowling Throne?” asked Jace, with as much scepticism as he could muster. “Nerd talk for…?”

Simon sighed, but should have long since gotten used to Jace’s antagonism. “Clary’s the Bowling Queen. She’s beat me steadily since 2011. But that’s gonna change tonight, I can feel it,” he declared.

Clary gave him a small smile, and said, “Okay. We’re on.” She made her way over to their bowling station, followed by the others. Magnus called her _biscuit_ and gave her a side hug, sensing something was amiss. The others had noticed it too, but Simon had shook his head when they’d attempted to broach the subject. “Just leave it,” he’d advised.

To Simon’s amusement, both Alec and Jace were terrible at bowling. Jace claimed that it was a ‘moronic human game’. Izzy took to it with grace and slight sensuality, as she did with most things. Magnus was adequate. Clary, obviously, still held her position as queen, while Simon remained vexed for the entire two games, always a few points behind her.

“Ah, another gutter,” Izzy pouted at her brother, who replied, _shut up_.

Izzy and Simon teamed up in their amicable goading and teasing of Alec and Jace. Clary didn’t notice, instead focused with steel intensity on her game and form. Magnus held a small little smile hidden behind his cocktail while Alec fumed and tried to appear unaffected.

Alec finally broke as Simon and Izzy giggled, and bit out, “Whatever, and stop flirting with my sister.”

“I’m not flirting with your sister!” Simon protested.

“Wait, I thought you were with Maia,” said Izzy.

Jace frowned and looked at Clary. Magnus interjected, “Last I heard you were canoodling with the local clan leader, Sheldon.”

“Raphael?!” exclaimed Izzy.

“Canoodling?” asked Alec, grimacing.

Jace whistled. “You are making your way through the group, Simon.”

Simon spluttered. He _did_ have a bit of a track record. “No! _No_. I’m not. I mean, yes, Magnus is right, but I’m not _making my way through the group._ Take that back!”

“Calling it like I see it,” Jace replied.

Izzy was frowning and appeared confused and hurt. “You’re with Raphael? Together?”

“Uhm. Y– yeah. Sort of. I guess. I, ehm, I mean yes. I think.”

Izzy quirked her brows and let out a disbelieving huff, righting her tight blouse. Alec glanced at her thoughtfully, then redirected his eyes at Simon and glared.

“What? What! What have I done?”

Before Alec could speak, Izzy cut in, “ _Nothing_. You’ve done nothing. Forget about it.”

The evening continued with a palpable tension in the air. Clary never noticed any of it. She was still stuck in her own misery. Her carefully constructed façade kept falling whenever no one was looking but Simon, her features betraying a lonely sadness.

Simon pointedly attempted to cheer up the group, but Izzy kept silent and Magnus appeared regretful of his little quip. Jace and Alec continued to suck at bowling, throwing gutter after gutter.

 

 

_Lewis Residence, Simon’s bedroom_

 

The following morning, Simon did some quick research on the internet, hoping to find tips on how to lend a helping hand to someone who was experiencing grief. Simon looked over his shoulder at Clary’s sleeping body, her chest slowly moving up and down. He continued to Google. Most entries on the net felt unhelpful, repetitive, and also, rather obvious and therefore redundant. Give them space. Give them time. Be sure to make clear you’re there for them. Don’t force them to talk about it if it is still too raw. Offer comfort. Offer distraction. Routine helps — _maybe I can do that_ , he thought to himself, bouncing a pen up and down next to his rudimentary list of _how to help clary_. It helped, at times, to writes things down. These days, she was looking on the thin side. Simon would help her eat regularly. He would prepare terrible human food – a cook he would never be, he thought sullenly – and she would eat it, no matter how often she said she wasn’t hungry. They could start with one bite. Clary yelled at him for treating her like a child, and he yelled right back that if she’d just eat, he wouldn’t be forced to act like a scolding parent.

Their bickering was always quickly forgotten. Perhaps she didn’t have the energy to fight. Either way, Simon was glad to see some fire return to her, even if it was in the shape of anger.

She was an essential part of his life.

He cried when she did, feeling his heart swell with commiseration while her soundless tears fell.

So he vowed to himself he would help her.

 

Day fifteen of Clary’s Recovery to Self, as Simon named it, came with an ugly realization: once again he had obsessively focused on one thing, waylaying all other aspects of his life. It wasn’t the first time either. He remembers his Spider Man spiral with a mixture of fondness and embarrassment, flashes of his thirteen-year-old self holed up in his room, unwashed and hungry, intensely fixated on his comics and unwilling to let any disturbance get to him.

Once an overriding thought presented itself, he had a bit of an issue multitasking, was all he was saying.

Case in point, since putting all his efforts into taking of Clary, who needed him, he hadn’t once reached out to Raphael, apart from that unsuccessful invitation to go bowling. He’d thought of him often, but he hadn’t reached out.

The realization came to him like a grenade exploding, and he felt ashamed at once. How could he have forgotten about Raphael?

That evening, after having put Clary to bed, who was complaining she wasn’t a five-year-old and did not need to be put to bed, Simon shrugged off his old hoodie and changed into some fresh clothes, heading for the Dumort at eleven p.m. The worst of the cold had passed in the last two weeks, and the chill had finally left the air.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an important chapter for me, because I'm majorly disappointed how little ramifications Jocelyn's death has/had. A few episodes, or a few scenes, and that's it? They mention her now from time to time, but can we dedicate some damn time to their mother-daughter relationship and the fact that Clary lost her parent?
> 
> I'm still secretly waiting for a moment where Clary will realise how much she misses her mom, how the hurt doesn't lessen even after months, how much difference it makes to have that person be gone. 
> 
> Damnit! [bangs fist angrily on table]


	5. Chapter 5

Cos I don't know how to link in the notes, here ya go: betas [simonsfangs](http://siimonsfangs.tumblr.com/) and [maiarobers](http://maiarobers.tumblr.com/)

 

Part V

 

_It’s hard, but did you ever really try? Maybe you could understand, when all you had to do was ask, and just open your mind when everything is passing by. All you had to do was try._ — Kali Uchis

 

_Hotel Dumort, Camille’s Former Living Room_

One of the perks of being nearly a century old vampire, Raphael had learned to attune his senses. That was why he could hear Simon approaching Dumort a full minute before he knocked on the door, hesitantly. Raphael had no heartbeat to recognize, but Simon’s gait was distinctly unflattering and uncoordinated, and it was highly memorable. Not to mention his scent – candied, syrupy and thick, the smell crawling up his nose, making his mouth salivate, his jaw tighten, and he got lost for a second—

“Whoopsie won’t cut it, I’m guessin’?” Simon smiled innocently.

Raphael’s expression – numb and blank, yet angered – did not change.

The worst of his latest depressive dip had come and gone. For the moment, he was recovering, returning to his habitual diet and putting on the pounds he lost in the last weeks. Lily had finally stopped cajoling him into drinking blood and getting out of bed. Now all that was left was anger. The person standing in front of him felt like a stranger. Simon, the rare individual he’d connected with – and why, on earth? against all likelihood, this kid? Simon, stinking of Clary, the stench coming from his pores, as if he’d rolled in her bed, had tangled in her sheets, had embraced and longed and fucked, and god knows what else. Their interlaced scents made him go mad.

_Dios perdóname_ , he cursed himself, when he felt his fangs grow and fingernails scrape against the leather couches. A vampire is a territorial beast, just like a human. And to think he’d placed himself above it all once, as if a lowly emotion like jealousy didn’t apply to him.

“Raphael?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you, duh.” Simon chuckled and plopped down on the couch, leaning into Raphael and kissing his cheek, a very short and automatic thing.

Raphael backed away slowly and stood up, moving to the other side of the room. He stared at a few ugly paintings Camille had hung in her living room, typical Neoclassicist compositions, devoid of any personality or innovation.

Raphael was exhausted. At times the depressive episodes made him feel alienated from himself, from his mind and his body, and afterwards needed to relearn how to walk and talk and be comfortable in his own skin, just like a newborn, a damaged tabula rasa. Right now, he felt a pervading discomfort inside, some kind of gnawing sense of isolation that demanded he sever off all contact, so that he might stew alone in his own, familiar misery.

He knew, he _knew_ , that the solution was right in front of him, an easy way out that would make this a whole lot easier, _just tell him_ , but something kept him from doing exactly that. Was he not in charge of who he was? He was stone cold sober and still felt numb.

“Raphael?”

“What?”

“What’s wrong?” Simon asked.

Raphael rolled his eyes at him, and shrugged his shoulders.

Simon blew a raspberry and yawned. “I’m beat. Fuck, I’m so tired.”

Screwing around with that Clarissa girl? “How come?”

“Pfffft. Pfffjuuw.” Simon made a whole range of sounds. “Ugh. Just, all this stuff at home. Mom. She – yesterday I found a small bottle of vodka in her purse! You know, one of those portable ones, I forgot the name, small size things—,”

“Flask.”

“Yes! Flask sized, and I confronted her and instead of getting all defensive and mad, she went silent and guilty, and, jeez, I don’t know which is worse! Like, what the hell is she thinking, at a time like this? As if we need more shit right now?” Simon jiggled his knees and grunted angrily. “With Clary. You know?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, her mother, duh. Why does every- _fuckin_ -one forget that? Jesus. Her mother died.” Simon was angered. He sprawled his limbs out all over the couch. “Her mother _died_. Jocelyn’s gone. Like, I don’t know how used to death you guys are in all this downworlder shadowhunter shit, but for us until-recently-regular-humans, it’s not that common of an occurrence, so, yes, it’s a pretty big deal for your _mother to die,_ Jesus Christ. _Yahweh_.” Simon shook his head incredulously.

Raphael knew, somewhere deep within, that he should be able to understand this loss. He had lost his mother, his father, his brothers, his sisters, one after another, and it hurt. Somehow, though, he couldn’t empathize. The jealousy demanded his wrath. He felt it burning.

Simon continued his diatribe, speaking of a reality that was everyday for Raphael. Plenty of downworlders died every day. Or at least, he told himself, one death didn’t matter more than the other.

When Simon finished, he looked over to Raphael, frustration and fury written all over his face, and Raphael instinctually knew he had to end things. Was it cowardly? He didn’t even consider the possibility. The only other truth he could utter at the moment was the state of his own well-being, his own pain, which would only add another layer of misery for Simon. And Raphael didn’t want to be that. He didn’t want to be another point of vexation. He didn’t want it. To be another man’s burden – no, he wouldn’t do it.

Raphael was exhausted. _The easy way out_ , he told himself.

“Simon …”

“Hmm? What? You look – actually you look like shit. What’s up?”

“You need to go.”

“Okay? Huh?”

“Go. I can’t – I don’t want you here right now.”

“Hey –whoa, I know I haven’t been around lately, but I’ve been _a_ _little_ preoccupied. Clary needed me.”

“Clary,” he scoffed. He shook his head, rubbing at his temples. It hurt.

“Yes! Clary. She needed me. Come on. What do you mean, you want me gone? Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.”

Simon gawked at him. “What? Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes.”

“You’re kicking me out.”

Raphael nodded, his face stern and betraying nothing.

“What the fuck. Why?”

“Go back to her. She needs you, right?”

“Yeah. But I thought you – I mean – I thought we were – together, so.”

“So?”

“So I don’t understand, damnit. What gives?”

“Just go back to her.” It rang through his ears. _Just go back to her, go back to her, go back,_ as if it fixed the fracture. It sounded like the obvious, simple solution to him. “Leave.” Raphael’s eyes cast down. The carpet held his interest.

Simon waited in vain for an explanation. “Am I being punked? What is wrong with you?”

“I don’t want you here now. Please go.” He wasn’t even lying. He wanted to be alone, the necessity for a solitary break insistent like rarely before. Now.

“Go. Leave.”

Simon frowned. “I really don’t understand.”

“Can you please just leave?”

He never begged.

Simon stilled on the couch, slumping back against the seat. Incomprehension crossed his face. The Dumort was dead quiet. Had everyone heard? What were the clan members doing at the moment? Were they privy to his humiliation? Raphael didn’t want to think about it.

By the time he had refocused his attention, the living room was empty, and he’d barely noticed Simon had left. His head felt numb and heavy, as if he was hung over, and he cursed his slow reflexes in times he was recovering.

He put his head in his hands, and breathed out slowly. Why make it so complicated? Go with your gut, people said. What if your gut was askew?

He wanted sleep. Dazed, he returned to bed. Lily stood in the doorway of his bedroom and glared into the dark space.

 

 

 

 

_One month later, a swimming pool in Brooklyn_

 

Clary arrived at the end of the swimming lane, heaving and gulping in big breaths of air. She joined Simon, who was gripping the metal railing of a diving block and floated in the water, from time to time lifting himself up.

“Yo!” he said.

She grunted and placed her forearms on the edge of the pool, smiling widely.

The pool was mostly empty this late in the evening. Though it was a public pool, it stayed open until eleven p.m. The clock indicated ten thirty.

“That’s a good hour you put in, and with only two breaks,” Simon told her, impressed. “Your endurance is getting better.” He swam around her in a half circle. “I’m impressed.”

“Thanks.”

Her face was bare of make-up, which was a rare sight for Clary. Simon was pleased to notice she looked healthier than a few weeks before. The unhealthy pallor was replaced by ruddy cheeks and brilliant eyes. Clary nodded seriously and sighed in exhaustion. She ducked her head underwater and cleared the water from her face and pushed her hair to the side. “I’m tired.”

“I can imagine.” He smiled.

Simon let go of the edge and floated on his back. Clary followed his example, and they rested on the water for a short while before Simon was suddenly choking on a mouthful of water, abruptly pulled down by Clary, who cackled when he gave an outraged cry.

“How long can you hold your breath underwater, actually?” she asked and then paused, as if suddenly remembering Simon didn’t have to breathe. “Oh, wow. You can just stay underwater forever. I’m jealous.”

He laughed and said, “I’d show you, but it’ll just get boring. You don’t even have to time it. The answer is forever. Because I’m dead, remember?”

“Yeah. Because of me.” She swam backwards and frowned.

“Ugh. That’s so two thousand and seventeen. Get with the times Clary, you’ve been forgiven.”

She snorted.

“I still feel the water pressure, though, my ears pop when I go to the bottom.” He dove into the water and swam to the tiles, feeling the familiar sensation in his ears. Clary swam next to him, and he sat down cross-legged and pretended to sip a teacup, just like they’d done when they were children. Clary mirrored the action and pushed off against the tiles, heading back to the surface. Bubbles followed her.

While they were in the dressing rooms, Simon silently congratulated himself. The physical exercise was doing her good. He’d noticed it first when they went bowling, how she revelled in the clear mind that came with working out, with being focussed. As she still spent many days cooped up at his house and sleeping or lounging in his bed doing nothing, or staring dully out the window, he was pleased she enjoyed the weekly outings to the pool. Rebecca had actually been the one to propose it. She had been on the diving team ever since she was a little kid.

Not only did it occupy the mind, but it tired out your body. At night, Clary slept without a fuss.

After they had dressed, dried their hair and taken the bus back to Simon’s, Clary went off to bed quickly. She smelled of chlorine, the scent sticking to her hair.

He shut the door behind her and headed to the guest room where he’d been staying. It was a bit strange, but Clary liked sleeping in familiar surroundings, and Simon was the kind of blessed person who could fall asleep anywhere, anytime.

He sat on the edge of the bed and took a sip of blood from his flask, the stash he kept on his at home. Hopefully his mother wouldn’t think he was becoming an alcoholic, too, if she ever caught a glimpse of the thing when she entered the room.

Simon checked his phone for the hundredth time this month. While Clary’s health was ameliorating, Simon’s problems were put on the backburner – not that thoughts of Raphael didn’t occupy his mind. At first, he thought Raphael had had a temporary lapse of insanity. The breakup wasn’t real. Raphael would come around. But days passed and no apology came. Raphael didn’t call or text. He didn’t answer. He was nowhere.

One evening, about two weeks ago, when the gang had gone out to eat some Chinese at Luke’s place, Simon had come across Lily in the lavatories. He was too startled at seeing her in a place where most vampires were _persona non grata_ , that he didn’t say hello. She spotted him immediately, but offered no greeting either, just sneered at him and stomped off, bumping into his shoulder with a harsh shove. The only things coming out of his mouth during the exchange were, _oh, eh, ouch!,_ and _wait!_

Lily didn’t wait.

Now Simon unlocked his screen to once again check for any new messages, or any replies to the ones he kept sending Raphael. They’d seen each other once since Raphael gave him the boot, and then he had acted like a clan leader, short-spoken, and straight-to-business. The whole encounter had left him with anxiety, a familiar type of discomfort he tried to push aside. With palms sweating and his neck heating up, he answered Raphael’s questions after finally giving up on directing the conversation to the last time they’d seen each other. Their break-up? Simon had no idea what was going on in Raphael’s head. And the guy wouldn’t even say what that had been about, last month. Raphael point blank pretended nothing had ever happened between them, as if they’d gone back to clan leader and fledgling, nothing more than that. Was that his way of breaking up with Simon without actually saying the words?

Meanwhile, all the vampires in Dumort either gave him a death glare or ignored him as if he didn’t exist. It was beyond childish, and he guessed he really _didn’t_ understand clan loyalty.

It stressed Simon out. He looked down at his bitten-down nails. No new messages. No returned messages. No missed calls.

Simon stood up at the foot of the bed, carefully laid aside his glasses, took one large unnecessary breath, and let himself fall down on the bed, head pressed into one of the cushions.

Anxiety was a bitch.

 

 

_Magnus’ Penthouse_

 

The next evening Clary went to see Jace, who, to Simon’s relief, had apparently been patiently giving Clary all the space she needed and had insisted on her recovery being the most important thing of all, meaning, she confided to Simon, she felt no pressure to start something that she wasn’t ready for. When Simon asked her where she and Jace stood, in light of these past months, she shrugged and replied, “I don’t know. I’ll see, tonight.”

As soon as she had hesitantly uttered these words with a faint blush on her face, she exited the front door of the Lewis residence. Jealous by her resilience, Simon decided he would not spent the evening sitting on his ass watching old reruns of _Star Trek_. No, he would go out and find out where the hell he stood with Raphael, and he knew who he needed to go see.

Simon arrived at Magnus’ apartment with a small bag of Nepalese take-out, realizing he didn’t have the first clue what Magnus liked to eat.

He knocked and the door swung open. Magnus, styled from head to toe, welcomed him in with a surprised quirk of the brows. He held a cocktail in his hand and offered Simon some blood, which he accepted.

To Simon’s great relief, Alec wasn’t there – he’d had horrifically embarrassing and or annoying scenarios running through his head ever since he left his house. Alex had never been Simon’s favourite.

Foregoing pleasant chit chat about the weather, Simon got right down to it.

“Do you remember that time when Raphael was injured and you treated him, and we had to go look for that lady, I don’t remember her name.”

Magnus pinched his lips. “Yes.”

“So you know him, right? I didn’t misread that. You’ve known Raphael for a long time, right? You took him under your wing, or whatever?”

Magnus seemed sceptical about where this conversation was headed. “Yes.”

“How long?” Fiddling with a coaster on the coffee table, he clarified, “I mean, how long have you known him?”

“Ever since he was bitten. Nineteen fifty three.”

Simon swallowed. “That’s over fifty years.”

Magnus nodded. “He’s like a son to me.”

“So I guess you know him better than anyone. Because … I need your advice. I don’t know who to talk to.”

            Simon explained what had transpired between himself and Raphael. Magnus deposited the cocktail on a small tabouret next to the sofa, leaned in and listened attentively. When Simon finished speaking, Magnus rubbed his hand over his scruffy jaw and sighed deeply.

“Darling, as I said,” Magnus explained, “He _is_ like a son to me, but he’s not without his faults. Raphael is difficult. Proud. And when you attempt to understand what goes behind certain actions of his, he is usually not very forthcoming with his thoughts and worries. To make matters more difficult, he has the tendency to take what he wants and can be quite unapologetic about it.”

Hearing these words, Simon couldn’t help but think that he didn’t truly know Raphael. Was he the kind of person to take what he wanted without caring what the results were? If he was being completely honest to himself, it was the unapologetic and at times rough attitude of Raphael’s that attracted Simon in the first place – a mean kind of sweet. Raphael was not gentle.

He voiced his insecurities timidly to Magnus.

“Ah,” Magnus nodded along. “That sounds like a classic rebound symptom to me.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Well, sweetie, Clary was that girl of your dreams.”

At the mention of Clary, Simon’s mood soured slightly. He had wished to leave Clary out of this discussion. Clary and Raphael were two different people, and it bothered him everyone always paired them up together. They were as different as night and day.

Magnus continued to explain. “Clary is sweet and genuine. Raphael is the complete opposite. That is a classic rebound symptom. You rebound with someone who’s the opposite of your ex. And Clary couldn’t hurt a soul, my biscuit.” Magnus tilted his head sideways. “At least not on purpose.”

The apartment was silent save for the traffic noise from the streets, floors below.

“She hurt you, didn’t she?”

Simon thought about it. “Not on purpose, I guess.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“Nope,” Simon said, popping the p. “But I don’t agree. Raphael is not a rebound. I’m – I’m, yes, I’m sure he isn’t. Clary … Clary was not the best idea I’ve ever had, okay? She was my friend before, and that hasn’t changed.” Simon shook his head. “We’re getting off track. This isn’t exactly what I wanted to talk about.”

“But she plays a role in this, you understand that, right?”

“I guess?” Simon felt so clueless and stupid.

Magnus huffed. “Raphael is jealous of her, of course.”

“That’s stupid.”

“It isn’t. He’s insecure about it, and—,”

“Raphael isn’t insecure about anything,” Simon cut in, dismissing the idea with a wave.

Magnus laughed. “He’s a big faker, that’s what he is. Everyone’s insecure about something, Sheldon.”

“But he won’t talk to me!” Simon yelled. “How am I supposed to know _anything_ if he doesn’t even talk to me about it? I know he doesn’t like her, but he’s never liked her and he’s never once hinted at being jealous! How am I supposed to know these things? I’m not a mind reader, Magnus!”

“I told you, he’s not very forthcoming about his own problems and worries. He’s a proud person, and doesn’t like appearing weak in front of others.”

“So? No one does!”

“Simon,” Magnus said, exasperated, “Obviously, for him, it works a little differently. You must have patience.”

“I don’t _want_ to be patient, I want him to _talk_ to me.”

After a beat of silence, Magnus continued in a quiet voice. “There are certain things you don’t know about him, so I can’t fault you for feeling this way, but it is not my place to talk about it.”

“Well, who am I supposed to talk to if he won’t talk to me? And you won’t either? No one at Dumort is gonna help me, that’s for sure. I don’t exactly have the best track record there, considering – eh – Camille.”

“And never being around.”

“Huh?”

“Vampires, just like werewolves, are a pack. They are a family. It’s not uncommon for a fledgling to refuse their place in the clan, but it’s been over a year, and you do not seem any closer to accepting them as your own.”

Simon felt outraged. “What! What do you mean? I’m literally together – was together – with their leader! How does that not involve me in their _little family_?”

Magnus pointedly ignored his petty tone. “Have you made any efforts of connecting with anyone _other_ than Raphael?”

“Wh– well, _no_ , but they all hate me! They can’t stand me!”

“Perhaps because you put in no effort.”

Simon furiously rubbed his forehead. “Great, so what you’re telling me is I’m fucked.”

Magnus chuckled and stood up from the couch. He made his way over and patted Simon on the back. “A budding romance is never easy, my darling. Do you wish for me to speak to Raphael?”

Simon thought about it.

Magnus continued, “I practically raised him. He should know better than to disregard you like that completely.”

“You just said it wasn’t your place to talk about him.”

“I can try talking _to_ him, instead.” Magnus sighed and shook his head. “He’s stubborn, Sherwin.”

Simon smiled at Magnus’ insistent name-amnesia and huffed, “Mh. Yeah.”

Before leaving the penthouse, Simon turned to Magnus and said quietly, “Ok. Talk to him.”


	6. Chapter 6

Thank youuuuuuu, betas [simonsfangs](http://siimonsfangs.tumblr.com/) and [maiarobers](http://maiarobers.tumblr.com/)

Part VI

 

_Shadowhunters HQ, a few weeks later_

 

In the early evening of a pleasant day, Simon found himself at the Shadowhunters headquarters. He stood in the hall with Clary, Alec, and Izzy. Alec appeared bored, as usual.

The weather had taken a sharp turn and the last hints of winter vanished. The air was now fresh and cool, with a warm undertone that promised spring. By the end of March, New Yorkers enjoyed the sunshine that made the flowers bloom.

The building was breathtakingly beautiful. The old buttresses from the church were still visible in most places. Simon wondered if the angelic beings ever felt tacky for having their headquarters in a house of god. Didn’t they think it was a tad obnoxious?

To his left, the elevator pinged. A shadowhunter with half her hair shaved off stepped out of the metal doors, and gave him the stink eye when she realized what he was. Did he have a neon sign on his forehead or something? She marched to the main lobby without greeting any of them.

Even at more-or-less peaceful times such as these, wherein a truce existed between the downworlders and the Shadowhunters, Simon was still unwelcome. He had never in his life experienced this type of exclusion and was faced with some harsh realities. His kind was hated – he repeated the words in his head in disbelief, _his_ kind was hated, his _kind_ was hated, looked down upon, regarded as lesser, inferior, unworthy. History was repeating itself, and if his Jewish grandmother – had she still been alive – had found out about his situation, she would have been devastated. Angered, too.

“Simon!”

Izzy waited impatiently as she called his name.

“Huh?”

“Will you give the document to him?”

“Uhm… to who?”

She rolled her eyes. “Raphael, of course. As clan leader, this falls under his jurisdiction.” She held out a manila folder. At his empty expression, she re-explained that it contained an updated version of the Accords with minor changes regarding the resident group of seelies near the wharf – they had been causing problems recently, and had to be turned out.

“Oh,” he replied dumbly, accepting the packet automatically. “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll give it to him. Next time I hang at Dumort with my besties, I’ll be sure to drop this off. Give it to the boss-man. If he’ll see me – that is, ha!” He was rambling now and grimaced at his own awkwardness.

Izzy had a calculating look on her face. “Trouble in paradise?”

“I don’t believe in heaven,” he said.

She appeared confused. “Okay?”

“Never mind!” He glanced down at the manila envelope, and moved it hand from hand.

“You and Raphael okay?” Izzy asked. Alec was not paying attention, and Clary was focussing on her blades, scratching at a bit of dirt embedded in a groove.

“Well – eh,” Simon stuttered, “there isn’t a really a Raphael and me – or maybe, I don’t know.” It seemed as if Izzy would resume her questions and Simon quickly made for the exit, mumbling something about the importance of Shadowhunter downworlder relations and speed of the Simon Delivery System.

He thought he saw her smile.

                      

 

_Dumort, three thirty seven a.m._

 

In the kitchen at the Dumort, Raphael’s phone buzzed.           

[Magnus] _Talked to him yet?_

After decades of knowing Magnus, Raphael could expertly imagine exactly what kind of facial expression accompanied the text. A slight furrowing of the brows, expectation clear in his eyes. The words were not only a question, but they were also a reprimand. After all, Magnus was a father figure of some sort to Raphael. Even when he didn’t know he was doing something wrong or when he didn’t realize why he was feeling off, chances were Magnus could easily decipher what plagued his age-old friend. At times like these, however, Raphael wished Magnus wouldn’t know him so well – at least then he could pretend nothing was the matter and he wouldn’t have to deal with admonishments from Magnus. Before cell phones were available to everyone, Raphael had the fortune of not being reachable at every moment. He wasn’t lucky any longer. He stared down at his glossy IPhone, and regretted spending so much money on a device he hated at times. Flipping over the phone and pushing it away, he ignored the text. When it buzzed again several minutes later, he turned it off.

Stan and he continued their game of chess. The night had been a slow one and he was going out of his mind with boredom.

It had been a few weeks since Raphael had received a visit from an angered Magnus. Ever since, Magnus had been bugging him incessantly with texts. Raphael’s mood had stabilized a while ago, but he still felt no inclination to patch things up with Simon, or to tell him what had been going on with him over the past couple of months – cowardice, his mind informed him haughtily.

Unfortunately, fate had decided to intervene, and before he could fully process the footsteps out in the hall, Simon had burst into the kitchen of the hotel and was standing in front of him with hands on his hips and a furious frown on his face.

“I’m fucking tired of waiting.” He turned to Stan and barked, “Get out.” At Stan’s murderous glare, Simon shrunk and coughed, “ _Please_. Get the hell out, if you please.”

Once Stan had shuffled out of the kitchen, Simon swivelled around and addressed Raphael, who still sat at the table, more or less frozen with a knife hanging above a split lime.

Simon said, “I know Magnus talked to you.”

Raphael pursed his lips.

Simon advanced until he stood right in front of him and glowered. “Well?”

A dirty plan wormed its way into Raphael’s mind. Simon stood so close, it was almost too easy to let old habits take over. He looked down and hooked on of his fingers into the belt hoops of Simon’s jeans. He pulled. Simon’s breath hitched. It was a dirty trick, because Raphael knew just how much Simon liked these sort of things. All the kissing, the touching, sex, all of it.

Raphael gripped one of Simon’s hips and hauled himself up from the chair. Simon stumbled backwards and they kept falling until they hit a wall with a loud _thump_. A manila envelope fell to the ground with a _thwack_.

For one moment, Raphael hesitated, but when he saw Simon’s dilated pupils and the blush on his cheeks, he pulled Simon in for a deep kiss, leaving no room for turning back. Simon dug his fingers into Raphael’s hair and sank against the wall, before rethinking the move and plastering himself against Raphael. They kissed until their lips felt bruised and sore, mouths a tangled mess of saliva. Raphael felt himself grow eager. He could admit readily how much he’d missed this. He pushed his thigh between Simon’s legs, widening his stance, and pressed against Simon’s straining jeans.

Outside, to neither of their knowledge, Lily rolled her eyes. The rest of Dumort heaved a collective sigh, unsure whether it was in relief or annoyance.

Simon followed his movements, reacting with such ease that it felt like coming home, and they kept going and going and going, unbuttoning and making up for lost time, moaning and groaning against the stone wall, and Raphael thought, _love me love me love me_ , and for the first time in weeks his mind felt right—

Simon shoved him off with all his strength, and Raphael knocked against the corner of the kitchen table, cursing. It would most definitely leave a bruise.

“No, no, no, _no_!” Simon shouted. “You little bastard! Asshole! You think you can distract me like this? Fuck you! You’ve got some explaining to do.” Simon adjusted his pants with a pained grimace and marched over to the refrigerator. He took out a packet of blood, which he tore open and sucked on greedily. He shut the refrigerator door with a loud bang.

Raphael stood in the middle of the kitchen. His plan had backfired, all right.

Once the blood bag was empty, he asked, “What do you want, Simon?”

Simon mocked him, imitating the words with a childish lilt to it. “What do I want? Are you serious? How about an explanation? _Finally_.”

Raphael eyed the manila folder left discarded on the floor, but Simon waved him off. “Leave that for later.”

“I told you, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, that sucks for you, I guess. I do, however. And I know Magnus went to see you, okay. So, _please_ , put in a little effort, and speak.”

Raphael remained silent for a moment. Simon’s anxiety came back momentarily – Raphael noticed the little signs, like the jittery hands movements, or the unnecessary puffs of breaths – and he occupied himself by lifting up and inspecting every object in the kitchen as if it would calm him down. He picked up a knife and twirled it on the kitchen counter. He grabbed a wine opener and threw it in the air, catching it swiftly. Then he seemed to realize he was fidgeting, and placed himself leaning against the fridge.

A big, painful lump formed in the back of Raphael’s throat, and he felt his eyes starting to sting. This happened sometimes, whenever he had to talk about his mental illness. It left him so vulnerable, unarmed, that he could not talk about it without losing face. The silence went on too long, and before he could open his mouth, Simon spoke quietly.

“Magnus told me you were jealous.”

“What?” This was not what he’d expected.

“He told me that, that you were jealous? Is that why – why you broke it off? Because of Clary?”

Raphael couldn’t help it – he laughed. “Clarissa?”

“Yeah?” Simon seemed taken aback by his laughter, angered even. “Petite redhead?”

“I know who she is, Simon, I’m well aware.”

“Is it because of her?”

Raphael shook his head. The jealousy towards Clary had always been there, it probably always would be. “No.”

Simon appeared very confused, almost comically so. “But … but you did feel jealous?”

Glaring, he grit out, “Yes.”

“Why on earth didn’t you ever _say_ anything about it?”

“What is there to say?” The anger simmered right beneath the surface, threatening to burst. What was it about that girl that always made him feel unhinged and volatile? “You want me to admit it to you? Fine. I’ll say the words, if my body language wasn’t clear enough in the first place.” Raphael walked over to Simon and gripped his chin forcefully. “I don’t like Clarissa. I never have. I like her even less now, after she toyed with you and discarded you like a rag doll.” He leaned in. “I don’t like the way you light up when she’s around. I don’t like her scent on you, that cloying stench makes me want to hurl. When she touches you, I want to yank you away and take you for myself. But do I do that? No. Why not? Because it isn’t appropriate. Because you wouldn’t like it. So, instead, I leave it be. But still that is not enough for you, apparently.”

“Christ, Raphael!” Simon shouted as he wrenched himself away, “I’m not asking you to turn into a twentieth century caveman! I just expected you to talk about it! At least mention it!”

“Why? What good would it do?”

“ _UH_!” Simon’s eyes bugged. “It would’ve prevented _this_ in the first fucking place! All that pent-up anger, it could’ve been avoided if you’d talked about it.”

“Not everyone feels like talking about their feelings all the damn time, Simon.”

“In all those months we were together? No? Not even once? You idiot.” Simon took a few steps backwards, muttering, “Un-be-lie-va-ble.”

Minutes of stubborn silence passed. The two of them sat down opposite each other at the table. Simon started fumbling with the chess pieces.

In the hallway, the clock struck four o’clock.

“Can we forget about Clary for a minute?” Simon asked.

He nodded once.

“What is going _on_ with you?” His tone had flipped a one eighty, and now Simon sounded worried, genuinely worried and almost scared, at the end of his wits. The sight of his face made Raphael’s eyes sting again.

“What’s wrong?” he asked again. “I don’t know what to do.”

Raphael clenched his jaws, licked his lips and stared steadily at a scratch on the surface of the table. He crossed his legs and cleared his throat.

Why was he so unable to put his anguish into words? They were just words. Simple words.

Raphael wondered if perhaps his brain had frozen at seventeen as well as his body. Maybe he hadn’t grown up at all. Maybe he was still the clueless boy at seventeen he’d always been. The thought made him feel ill. Was he really doomed to spend an eternity in stasis, jailed in a seventeen-year-old mind?

Simon offered his hand on the table, and Raphael took it hesitantly.

“Your mother …” he started, unsure of how to proceed. “You told me, a while ago, that she has problems with drinking. Alcohol.”

“Yeah.”

Raphael forced himself to not obsessively analyse every minor change in facial expression on Simon’s face. “For an outsider, I guess it’s tiresome. It worries you, too, I know that. I’ve heard that people who are feeling stressed or down, it leads to relapses, quickly. Or more quick, I do not know. But then, to an outsider, there’s a certain reassurance or expectation that it’ll be over at some point, those moment will pass, and the people will get better. But when you’re on the other side of it, it seems like there’s no end. Someone saying that the moment will pass doesn’t help, because –,” he swallowed, “because it seems infinite. There is no other reality than the one you’re in at that moment.

“And even when I don’t feel it, when I’m not stuck in one of those,” Raphael moved his hand in a circular motion, as he cautiously admitted his own experience, “moments, it is still present somewhere in the background, like an animal waiting to pounce. I know it’s there. I’m not like your mother, but I have my own issues. I get depressed. I’ve been diagnosed dozens of times. It always comes back. And for an immortal being, that’s not reassuring at all.”

Raphael took a moment to gather himself. Simon looked at him steadily.

“You’ve got so much going on in your life,” he continued, “and you’re so young. I don’t expect you to carry my burdens as well.”

Simon pinched Raphael’s thumb, pressing against the nail. “So you’re saying … that you broke our thing off because you’re a depressed _martyr_?”

Just like that, the spell was broken and the air cleared of all sincerity.

“ _Dios mio_. No, that’s not what I’m trying to say.”

“Sorry! It’s just, it’s difficult okay? I’m trying to understand.”

“What I choose to share and with whom is my choice, and I know Magnus probably thinks that makes me a _martyr_ and a fool, but just because he’s old, doesn’t mean he’s always right.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I didn’t tell you I get depressed because it’s not always something I _want_ to share. But more importantly, because I think you’re not – how should I put this – ready to deal with more than you’re dealing with at the moment. Or not mature enough.”

Simon appeared offended. “What?”

“You’re surrounded by people who need you – Clary and your mother. And I remember you telling me it weighed heavily on you. It is not your responsibility to take care of me, too.”

“Oh! But I – I mean – I was just complaining! Moaning and whining, you know.”

“Regardless, there is some truth behind it. You even seemed angry at her.”

Simon closed his eyes and let out an embarrassed _hiss_. He sighed and opened his mouth to speak. “I – I – I’m not gonna … deny that I’m angry sometimes. But I’m not actually angry at _her,_ you know? I’m angry at the situation. Just because I don’t know how to handle it. And because I feel guilty. She relapsed because of me.”

Raphael attempted to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault, but Simon pouted and squeezed Raphael’s hand.

“Simon, your mother needs you. But it’s not your fault if she relapses.”

“I _am_ there for her, but I can’t always be there. Especially now with Clary. And Rebecca has school, as well, so. Somehow we have to manage.”

“By being angry you only manage to push her away, though,” Raphael said quietly.

Simon huffed. “That’s hypocritical. You did the exact same thing. You pushed me away, but you could’ve just talked to me about it. Why didn’t you?”

Feeling foolish, Raphael realized Simon was right. Mostly. He said, “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it. Sometimes, when I’m not in a good place, I don’t have the energy to talk, even if I wanted to. Talking doesn’t always help.”

Obviously, Simon disagreed, as he huffed again and shook his head. “But you _have to_. You have to talk. If not with me, somebody else,” he urged. “And, Jesus, you certainly don’t break up with someone just because the other guy was an insensitive idiot and blabbered something unthinkingly.” Simon scratched his nose and adjusted his glasses. “If you break up with me every time I say something stupid, we might as well quit while we’re ahead. I thought I’d told you once, to not pay too much attention to what comes out of my mouth! I say all kinds of shit. I know I’m immature sometimes, okay? I’m sorry. And if I’d known you struggled so much, I wouldn’t have been so careless! I’m sorry! I’m such an ass!”

Simon seemed to suddenly realize he was apologizing and stood up abruptly, walking around the table and bending down to haul Raphael out of his chair. It was a little out of his comfort zone, but eventually Raphael rubbed Simon’s back as they embraced.

He would remember this evening as one of the rare evenings Simon was able to disprove his young nature. While it was obvious to Raphael that a reason for his attraction to Simon was that joyous youth, it felt nice to see the more serious side of Simon, a side that would perhaps one day understand him.

An odd sense of relief sparked in his chest as they stood in the kitchen. It felt strange, because it was mixed with leftover melancholy, weeks old. It was the animal lurking in the dark waiting to pounce. It was prowling, intending to strike. Only now Raphael had someone there alongside him.

They let go of each other. Simon shuffled on his feet and scratched at the back of his neck. He sighed and smiled reassuringly – although his body language indicated discomfort, Raphael could tell Simon felt more or less heartened by their exchange.

They stood opposite one another in the kitchen and let the quiet sink in peacefully.

 

—

 

Later that evening, Lily barged into Raphael’s bedroom without knocking, hoping to discuss some clan business that was on her mind. When she entered, the stream of light from the hallway illuminated a part of the room, and she glimpsed the two of them entangled in bed, Simon gripping Raphael around the neck and shoulders, Raphael covering Simon’s mouth with his hand. It was Simon’s muffled shout that revved her into motion from where she’d been standing shock still.

Lily, embarrassed and flustered, stomped out of the room, slamming the door shut and yelling about locks and the usefulness of their existence.

Raphael shouted at her in Spanish while Simon muttered embarrassedly under his breath.

 

 

—

 

_Dumort Living Room, nearing midnight._

Raphael stumbled out of his empty bed, disoriented and groggy. It was eleven p.m. He’d slept in late. The sheets next to him were rumpled but unoccupied. He quickly took stock of the going-ons in the hotel and could hear Simon’s chittering laughter coming from downstairs.

Once carefully dressed, he descended the carpeted stairs, pausing a moment on one of the last steps as he realized Simon was in the company of a few clan members. Before entering the living room, where the chatter was coming from, he detoured to the kitchen to grab a quick breakfast. He flexed his fingers impatiently while waiting for the blood to heat up.

A burst of laughter came from next door. Feeling as if he was missing out on the fun, he hurried along and didn’t clean up the used cup, instead dumping it in the sink carelessly.

In the shared living quarters of Dumort, ambiance reigned. Simon was seated at a large table in his pyjamas, surrounded by Stan, Lily, and a small group of others. Raphael peered over Simon’s shoulders while squeezing his neck briefly.

Simon looked up with a concentrated frown. “The game of life,” he said, showing him the little blue card that declared him to be a travel agent. His red car was jam-packed with blue and pink pins. “I need a payday,” he muttered gravely. “My house got flooded two rounds ago.” Raphael bent forward and turned the green card around, indicating Simon’s pay to be about 40.000 $.

Lily smirked at them from across the table. She was an accountant and had already bought off her house. “ _El está perdiendo,_ big time.” She snorted and spun the wheel.

Simon turned to Raphael with an angered sullen look. “She’s out to get me. She’s conspiring against me with Stan, I’m telling you.” The others laughed, and Simon groaned when his car landed on ‘Salary Due’.

“No fair!” he shouted.

The next few hours passed in similar fashion. Raphael had taken a book from upstairs and settled in the seat in the alcove beside the dining room table where the clan went through a large stack of board games. Everyone voted against Monopoly, complaining that the game took too long and was boring. At one point Raphael noticed he was smiling to himself.

Around midnight, he heard her approaching the steps of Dumort.

After dealing with the guard posted near the entrance of the building, Clary knocked quietly on the wooden door of the living room.

Most of the clan members hissed or rolled their eyes at her arrival, but Simon jolted and jumped out of his chair with a broad smile of his face. “Be nice!” he warned.

He opened the door and waved her inside.

“Simon!” she chastised, looking him up and down, “You’re still in your PJs!”

“Oh,” he said. “I got caught up in our gaming _sesh_.” He pointed over his shoulders. “I’ll be right back. Real quick, I swear. You’re okay if I leave you here, right?”

“Of course, Si.”

He bolted up the stars and Clary was left in a room filled with vampires, most of whom hated her – on principle. Not to mention the Camille debacle. However, Raphael reasoned as he put his book aside and straightened his clothing while standing up, Simon was doing his best to make friendly with Raphael’s people, the least he could do was extend the same courtesy. He sighed and went to stand by her. That way she was exempt from receiving the dirty looks the others were sending her.

“Clarissa,” he greeted. Perhaps the name sounded stiff on his lips, perhaps it sounded slick, but he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, Raphael.” She didn’t hold his eyes and picked at a healing wound on her palm. The scab came off and left pink, scarring skin. Now that he took a good look at her face, Raphael noticed that there were deep circles under her eyes. She smelled unwashed and her clothes were wrinkly. A few attempts had been made to cover up her unkempt state, such as the subtle and sweet perfume, the thin layer of foundation, or the tight braid to keep together her greasy hair. He had to admit he was a little taken aback at her appearance. She smelled exactly like the scent that always clung to Simon, but her presence betrayed the easy lie that was conjured up using perfume and make-up. He realized, feeling very stupid and small, that his jealousy was petty and childish. This girl deserved his sympathy, not his contempt. The death of her mother chased her like a shadow sticks to your body. Raphael could not change much about his nature and his instincts, but he was human enough to cast them aside.

“How are you?” she asked, giving a small hint of a smile.

“Fine. I’m well. You?”

She nodded and gripped her thin arms. “Yeah, I’m all right. We’re going out tonight. Listen to one more obscure band Simon found somewhere on a poster in a dingy toiler of a music bar.” She huffed out a laugh and rubbed at her eyes.

Raphael could only hum in acquiescence. He considered offering his condolences, but refrained.

Simon barged into the room, heaving unnecessary breaths like a typical fledgling vampire and almost yelled right in Clary’s ear, “Okay! Okay! I’m ready! Let’s go!”

She grimaced at the volume, as did most clan members, who, thankfully, had kept their distance. Surely they must have sensed Raphael’s hesitancy and desire to keep a respectful distance from her. Undoubtedly, he’d have the clan’s questions fired at him as soon as the redhead was gone.

Simon put on his jacket, tugging at the arms. Once he was finally done, he looked up at his best friend and gave her a thumbs up. “Okay! Okay!”

Before leaving the Dumort – Raphael’s undead heart was doing odd things he couldn’t describe – Simon quickly sidestepped Clary and winked at Raphael, pressing a short, chaste kiss on Raphael’s cheek. Raphael almost backed away out of habit, but pushed down that old instinct.

As an eighty-something-years-old, he was living the strange occurrence of a novelty – eighty five years, give or take, more than thirty thousand days on this planet, and still something so simple as a human had the ability to surprise him, to change him.

As Clary and Simon exited out of the room and out of the Dumort, Raphael watched them walk away, and thought to himself, oddly pleased and feeling an unknown energy thrumming in his chest, that maybe he wasn’t doomed to live an endless life trapped in the mind of a seventeen year-old.

There was hope for him yet.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PEACE! I'm out

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:  
> I have no experience with alcoholism, so my interpretation of it shouldn’t influence yours. My main goal was only to write about (mis)understanding, and how people struggle with problems we might not understand.


End file.
